


There's a nail

by Flurry_X



Series: Whimper [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst and Feels, Denial of Feelings, Explicit Sexual Content, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, Human Castiel (Supernatural), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-05 23:23:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17334332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flurry_X/pseuds/Flurry_X
Summary: "Years and layers of denial and avoidance and stolen glances are pelted away from his body instantly, with the simple brush of Dean's palms over his skin. And for all that longing, all that swarming hive of doubt, all this time, it was as simple as reaching out."-----If Destiel happened not with a bang, but with a whimper.Where they both just give into it.Castiel POV





	There's a nail

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is set sometime at the bunker, Cas is human, there's no specific reference to canon because I'm mid-rewatch and don't remember half the facts! I just really needed to write them giving into it finally, hope it makes sense

There’s a nail, on the right side of Castiel’s bed.  
It’s rusty and old and twisted, and it juts out of the wood in a crooked way. Its head is broken and bent and it curves inward like a small messy hook. It’s at the perfect height that if he walked too close it would definitely catch on his skin, leave a deep cut.  
He used to think about fixing when he first moved in, even wrote it down on a to-do-list, but he doesn't anymore. Now he just carefully steps around it, every day, multiple times a day.  
It’s just easier that way, his body learns the simple combination of steps in order to avoid it, and he does it so mechanically now he doesn’t even notice anymore.

Step - step - twist to the left - step

It’s easy and it’s always the same and even the carpet has a line on it now to follow the path of Castiel’s feet.  
It’s a practiced routine that has no reason to break.

Until it does.

Maybe his body is too tired to remember or maybe the muscle memory just falters sometimes. He wakes up and he's getting down on the right side of the bed, his feet drag slow through the carpet and before he figures out that something is different, his calf is caught on the nail, it burns as it slices his skin open.  
He curses under his breath, a shiver of irritation towards himself for forgetting for a moment his carefully planned route.  
There are certain things you just step away from; avoidance keeps you safe.  
He should have remembered.

He leaves bloody footprints on the floor as he hops clumsily to the bathroom, thinking it looks a lot more dramatic than it feels, something twisting in his belly as his body tries to reach for a healing grace that just isn’t there anymore.  
He easily locates their many first aid supplies, and he gets to work on mending the cut so he doesn’t dirty the whole bunker with his blood.  
His bandaging skills have gotten better with time, but he’s still not as good as the brothers.  
Dean always complains he wraps it too tight and uncomfortable, lets him do it anyway, adjusts it when he thinks he isn’t looking.

The bandage is still half undone, crumpled in his fingers, when he hears the front door slamming open.  
Heavy steps, a sigh, the clang of a heavy bag dropped on the wooden floor, the creaky sound the kitchen chair makes when you sit down on it.  
It only takes him a couple of seconds to react, discard the bloody gauze on the floor and hurry through the hallway into the living room. He feels a slight itch in his head, reminding him he’s only wearing boxers and an oversized ratty t-shirt that likely belonged to Dean at some point, plus a bedhead that probably makes him look insane. If it wasn’t for the pull in his belly, dragging him to the front door, like he has no control over his own damn limbs, he would be embarrassed about his disheveled state.  
But he’s not; because maybe it’s Dean, and Dean hasn’t been home in two weeks and he hasn’t heard from him in three days and what if it’s him, and what if he’s hurt.  
He hurries up, reaches the kitchen, doesn’t care about the blood dripping from his calf.

And there’s Dean, head thrown back, body slumped on the chair, a hand clenched around his forehead, like it hurts. He looks rough, has an angry bruise on his cheekbone and a deep purple cut that runs from his scalp down to his right eyebrow.  
Castiel frowns, he doesn’t like Dean being hurt, it makes something ache behind his ribs, every time.  
“Hey” he says, and it comes out soft and worried. Dean opens his eyes.  
“You alright?” he asks, as Dean lifts his head just a little to look at him.  
“Yeah, I’m alright” he says, rough and sleepy, a groan rolling through his voice “you on the other hand...” he gestures at the cut on Castiel’s calf, still oozing blood lazily “What did you get in a fight with, Cas?” he says, smirking a little, his eyes so green, Castiel’s name so easy on his lips.

Embarrassment sneaks through his veins, fast and heavy, settles on his cheeks like a blush.  
“The bed” he murmurs softly, unable to lie, but almost hoping Dean won’t hear him. The snort of laughter coming from the kitchen signals that he does.  
Castiel rolls his eyes then, Dean’s smile crawling all the way into his own mouth, like he can’t help it, if Dean smiles, he smiles too, even when it’s at his own expense  
“That seems messed up man, how did it even happen?” Dean asks, sitting up on the chair, looking at his leg with a worried glance, like his shoulders don’t sag with the weight of hours in the car, like his face isn’t currently split open and the scratch on Castiel’s leg is the biggest thing he has to worry about.  
It makes something shiny bubble up in his lungs, being the sole center of Dean’s attention, the focus of his gaze. Makes him feel bigger than he is, like he can just stretch out of his own borders, swell into the space, be as glorious as Dean seems to think he is.  
“It was a rusty nail-thingy” he mumbles, his eyes dropping to the floor, his bare feet, anything that is not Dean.  
Dean laughs at him again, but his eyes are gentle, his smile teasing, and it makes Castiel’s ribs curl inward inside his chest, like he’s growing branches and they’re blooming inside of him and it’s hard to breathe.

“Where’s Sam?” he forces out then, because he needs an escape route. Hopes Dean will let himself get distracted.  
“He’s uh.. He had to stay behind, finish up the job, you know.” Dean says easily, but he avoids his eyes, drops them to the ground, a shadow crossing over his features like midnight.  
“Dean” he says softly, trying to tread lightly “What happened?”. As he steps towards him, Dean tenses up, squares up his shoulders like he’s about to get into a fight.  
“Cas. Don’t.” he warns, a hand raised between them. There’s a heaviness to him, like tiredness has seeped all the way through his skin, his muscles, directly into his bones. Castiel aches to reach out and take it from him, makes him yearn for his grace. He swallows it down.  
He nods, decides to leave it be, mumbles a quick excuse and busies himself with looking for supplies to patch up Dean’s wound instead.

Materials all gathered in his hands, he approaches Dean to look at the deep cut on his head. Dean’s eyes flutter lightly when he gets closer, curled like sunset over his cheeks, and his head lulls backwards just a little.  
“Cut looks nasty Dean, what happened?” he asks, and Dean’s eyes startle open again, settle on him, green and cloudy and tired.  
“It’s alright, really, you should have seen the other guy” he grunts with a smirk, but Castiel can see the way he flinches when he tries to stretch, the way his fingers clutch at his bad knee. The deflection is weak at best, but he knows not to pry, knows Dean will tell him when he’s ready, if he ever is. Some hunts leave a deeper mark than others, he should know.

The chair groans under Castiel when he sits down and tries to reach out towards Dean’s forehead. Dean buffs him out, all bravado, says “I’m good man. Lemme look at that cut on your leg instead”, pointing at Castiel bloody calf.  
“Dean, come on, it’s nothing” he tries to brush him off.  
“Yeah, tell that to tetanus, mr. tough guy” Dean grumbles, reaches out to grab Castiel behind his knee and pulls until his foot rests on the chair, between his spread legs.  
The touch tingles on his skin, and Castiel fights hard not to flinch..

The air is warm and it makes it seem like Dean’s fingers are icicles on his skin. He shivers, hopes Dean won’t notice. He has to stretch to be able to reach Dean’s head properly, his torso thrown all the way forward, his arms outstretched to allow him to reach his face. It’s uncomfortable and tight and it somehow just works perfectly.  
They sit like that, Castiel’s leg on Dean’s chair, putting each other back together, stitching up each other’s wounds. There's a peculiar and soft intimacy in sitting like that, in the morning silence, lazy light flickering from the ceiling, pooling at their feet. Castiel is acutely aware of Dean's hands touching him, the soft bend of his knee, the hair on his calf, the ticklish spot on his ankle. Places Dean’s hands have never been, places he feels like he should keep for himself only. And yet his fingers feel so good, make his skin feel tender, alive, and he doesn’t want to shy away.

The cut on Castiel’s leg is an easy fix, Dean’s hands skilled, and he makes quick work of it, cleaning it, bandaging it just tight enough. He lets Castiel's leg go when he’s done, his fingers leaving a trail wherever they touch, like Castiel could follow it back through his skin and summon it back, over and over again. He misses the tingling warmth right away.  
His body feels restless and he has to stand up, testing the way his muscle flexes easily under the gauze.  
The air is still and quiet around them as he steps closer to Dean, almost towering over him now that he’s standing and Dean is sitting down.

He relishes in the way Dean’s gaze trails on him from below for just a second, just long enough for a shiver to breathe and die on his spine, then starts working on Dean’s wound again.  
He tries to be gentle with the tweezers, but the cut is deep and dirty and he needs to remove all debris from it before he can bandage it.  
Dean huffs and puffs in annoyance every time Castiel goes too deep. “You suck at this man” he grumbles, but he doesn’t move away, his head lulling into Castiel’s hand instead.

Castiel doesn’t say anything, he just lets his fingers skim lightly over Dean’s neck, the short hair there tickling his fingertips, and he pretends not to notice the goosebumps on his skin when he does so.  
It’s not fast work, and Castiel’s hands shake sometimes, and when he’s finally done with the bandaging Dean’s eyelids start drooping lower and lower, until they slip closed. Steady, even breaths fall from his parted lips, and for a moment he almost looks at peace, even with the scarring and the bruising. Slumber makes him look younger, smoothens the tired lines on his face, unfurls the knot between his eyebrows, and Castiel aches to reach out to him while he’s unguarded, safe.  
He gently cups the back of his head just in a caress, a shadow of a touch, so soft he doubts Dean would even feel it, but it’s enough for Dean’s head to slowly slump forward, drop heavy on Castiel’s chest. It’s unexpected, but it feels right somehow, the weight of it on his sternum, the warmth of his breaths on the faded cotton of his t-shirt. It feels like it belongs there, like his lungs breathe easily knowing Dean is right there, solid, and safe.

Castiel knows that he’s weak when he reaches out to touch Dean's neck, his fingertips following the strong lines of the tendons into his jaw, the ridge of his cheekbone. It’s like uncharted territory, like a whispered secret between the two of them. There’s dark stubble on Dean’s face and his hair is matted with a mixture of fatigue and blood. And he’s beautiful.  
He’s beautiful and unguarded and he trusts Castiel so much it makes something hot swell right inside his chest, into his dry throat. He tries to swallow it down, but it stays there, crumpled and dry and lodged in the middle, impossible to ignore.  
There’s a tender vulnerability with Dean like this, sleepy and tired, and using Castiel’s body as a support and a place to rest. Castiel’s fingertips tingle where they rest on Dean’s neck. Like a small army of spiders, crawling from his fingers, through his arms, his veins, into his mouth, his eyes. Clouding him, making it seem like nothing truly exists outside of his skin on Dean’s.  
The instinct to avoid, look away, keep safe, rises up in him, but feeble, muted and meaningless like tv static.  
Because Dean’s skin is warm and a little damp under his hands, and Dean is solid and heavy and yet his edges are crumbling, and Castiel wants, desperately.  
He wants to reach out, wants to fix it, wants him. Dean.

In the silence and the privacy of that kitchen he lets himself fall on the wrong side once again.  
Forgets to remind himself of all the reasons why they don’t do this, don’t act on it, don’t talk about it.  
He knows, more than anyone, what falling feels like. He has fallen from the greatest heights right into the deepest crevices, fallen from heaven, fallen from grace, fallen into his own grave.  
And now he’s falling again, and it almost feels like flying, like he’ll never make contact with the ground. Something wild in him thinks that it wouldn’t matter, even if he did.  
He lets himself fall towards Dean, slow and trembling, until his lips hover mere inches above his head. He bends his neck, kisses him softly on the crown of his head, like a child.  
Tells himself it doesn’t matter, Dean will never know.

Then Dean’s shoulders stop rising, stuck mid breath, like his whole system has just shut down.  
A black pit of fear and sorrow opens up inside Castiel’s chest, as he realizes that for the second time today, he has somehow forgotten the planned, safe route. He has forgotten to step away.  
There’s no air for him to breathe in, as he watches Dean’s neck stiffen, stuck in surprise or indecisiveness, he doesn’t know.  
His heart is a frenzied bird, flapping its wings, rattling wild in his chest, slamming against the bars, like it’s trying to find a way out.

All it takes for the tension to melt is for Dean’s eyes to find his, tentative and tired and clear.  
He's looking at him like he used to do when they first met all those years ago. Like reverence and awe and wonder, with a hint of fear. Like he thinks Castiel could change the course of his life with a snap of his fingers. Castiel feels full of grace again.  
He holds Dean’s gaze as he bends down again, his own eyelids slipping down like a curtain, like protection, and he leaves another kiss right on Dean’s forehead. Presses his dry lips on his skin, leaves them there like a blessing.

Dean exhales like he hasn’t taken a full breath in years, deep and rumbly and broken, raises his hands between their bodies, an invitation and a warning.  
His cheek is twitching, like he's trying to plaster on a smile but his face is too heavy, pushes down on the corners of his mouth, scrambles his features into a trembling mess.  
“Cas..” he croaks out, rough and dark, like he’s cracked from the inside out and his soul is slipping right through his lips.  
Castiel is there to catch it.  
It feels like they’re falling together now, Castiel can almost feel the wind whipping at his skin, punching all air out of their lungs, as they both plummet down to the ground, clutching at each other.  
Hands shaking as he brings them up towards Dean’s face, tilts his chin just a little, lets his lips fall onto Dean’s.

The moment swells up, shatters, splinters away in a myriad of sharp fragments. Like his brain is trying to commit it all to memory, but it’s too much to process. So he’s left with shards, the way Dean’s eyes widen in surprise, the silk smooth feeling of his skin under his hands, his smell, like leather and blood and sweat and pepper, the wet and gentle give of his lips.  
Words rise up in his throat, like bile, there’s so much they should say to each other. But the moment feels too fragile, thin and brittle like ice, like anything more than a puff of air out of their mouths would inevitably destroy it.  
Air wraps around them both like cling film, sticky and all over and pinning their bodies where they are. Castiel’s breaths begin in his lungs and die inside Dean’s and he can’t hear his own thoughts anymore.

Dean’s lips are still beneath his, warm and chapped and welcoming. They open gently, slowly, let out a shivering gasp of surprise. And then their tongues are meeting inside the vacuum of their mouths, wet and hot and deep. Castiel feels like he’s shaking from the inside out, his bones rattling in his body, and he whines with it.  
Whines when Dean’s hands come up to frame his face, calloused and rough and so gentle on his skin. Whines when Dean suddenly stands up as if shocked, mid kiss, knocks their teeth together and throws his balance off. It’s messy and rough and his hip hurts when it catches on the table, as he lets Dean push him until his back hits the kitchen wall.

Years and layers of denial and avoidance and stolen glances are pelted away from his body instantly, with the simple brush of Dean's palms over his skin. And for all that longing, all that swarming hive of doubt, all this time, it was as simple as reaching out.  
He lets Dean pin him there, between the solid, trembling lines of his body and the cold wall. Breath stutters in his lungs as Dean’s hands fall from his face to his hips and the touch is gentle and desperate at the same time. Fire licks at his skin wherever they touch, it feels like his whole body is ignited and he can’t think of anything except that he wants, he needs, more of it.  
He raises his hands to grab at Dean’s face, his hair, the shifting curve of his neck; he licks into his mouth, slow and deep, sucking his lips, biting them. He pushes against him, frantic and without rhythm, and has never felt more holy and more animalistic at the same time. Desperation claws at them both as they fit their bodies together, caught in a rolling avalanche, rutting and straining against one another.

And then Dean is moving his hand from Castiel’s hip to his navel, and then lower, between his legs, where the heat is the most bright and unbearable. The slow brush of his fingers feels scolding on his skin, the anticipation is a steady pulsating buildup in his gut, and Castiel thinks he might burst right there.  
“Shh..” Dean murmurs, pins his eyes on him, and he looks wrecked, like he’s splitting at the seams. But his voice is so gentle, his touch so sure, his lips so pliant as he kisses into his mouth again and again.  
There isn’t enough resolve inside Castiel for him to stop and demand they talk about it. He’s weak. He lets it happen.

Dean is still kissing him when he finally slips a hand beneath his boxers and grabs him tightly. It’s too dry and their bodies are so close together that the angle is awkward, but Castiel has never been more aroused in his life, and he doesn’t care.  
He ruts into Dean’s fist shamelessly, hears his own moans, loud and broken, the slap of skin on skin, feels Dean’s stubble scratch at his throat, his hot breaths puffing against his skin. It makes him feel debauched, to be touched like that, sweaty and disheveled, boxers pulled mid-thigh, t-shirt crumpled to his armpits where Dean’s hands have pushed it, wandering all over his torso, his stomach, his nipples. Like Dean can’t decide what to focus on and he’s just trying to touch him everywhere at the same time.  
His own hands are clutching at Dean for dear life, like the world is melting under their feet and Dean is the only real thing that’s left.

Dean is like a man possessed, sucks bruises into his jaw, bites and claws at his body like he owns it. He moves his fist in jerky, tight, strokes, and Castiel can see the pink head of his dick peeking out of his hand, faster and faster. It feels like too much and not quite enough at the same time. Then Dean spits on his own hand, and it’s gross and practical and the lubrication feels so good that Castiel can do nothing but give into it.  
He lets himself flow with it, open with the strokes of Dean’s hand, until the coil in his belly finally snaps, and it all comes rushing out of him. He comes and he feels a guttural moan leave straight from his throat, just be caught by Dean’s mouth.  
And his body is water, and Dean is holding him up, so he doesn’t flow away, until he becomes solid again.

His mind doesn’t feel any less clouded, even after the orgasm. Because Dean is still there, desperate and frantic and hard, sweat pooling on his temples, between his shoulders, and Castiel wants to see him, wants to lick it off him.  
He drops to his knees, slips right between Dean’s grasp, he feels weightless even as his knees hit the tiles hard.  
Nothing exist outside the way Dean’s eyes are looking at him, into him, the hunger there, the desperation, it only spurs him on. Makes him want to make this moment stretch and last forever.  
His fingers don’t tremble as he undoes Dean’s jeans, pulls them down to his knees. Dean’s thighs are shaking, the muscle there shifting and pulling in anticipation, and it looks like a fascinating spectacle. He runs his fingers over the short hair, follows the trail on the inside of his thighs, where his skin is soft and pliant.

Then he can’t help but looking up at him, all of him, the straining bulge in his underwear, the tremble in his stomach, the quiver in his red swollen lips.  
Dean's body looks like a painting, his face drawn in stark, messy lines of chalk, shifting and overlapping and unsure, a splatter of freckles on his cheeks like the flick of a brush; his skin like oil paint, warm and pliant and ever shifting, thick and plentiful, and Castiel sinks his hands in it, shapes him up, lets himself get messy with it.  
He pushes his face against Dean’s groin, mouths at him through the underwear and relishes in the way his hips snap forward immediately.  
“Cas. Please.” Dean pants, strained and gritty like gravel, and Castiel doesn’t need to hear it twice.

He pulls the underwear down, allows his hands to caress Dean’s skin as they go.  
When he finally takes him into his mouth Dean moans loud and broken and ecstatic and he knows he can’t stop.  
He licks at the head, sucking it into his mouth, swirling his tongue against the smooth skin there over and over, until Dean fists a hand in his hair and pushes deeper inside.  
It’s sloppy, there’s spit flowing through his lips, a squelching sound when he sucks him in that sounds obscene to his own ears, and Dean is making choked-up noises like he’s losing his mind.  
“Cas” he keeps saying, rolls his name into a moan, a gasp, a sob.  
It all sounds like a prayer to Castiel’s ears. Like Dean is desperate and falling apart, and calling for him over and over again. Like he’s worshiping him.  
It spreads warmth and arousal through his chest all over again, makes his toes curl, and he never wants to stop.

He swallows Dean down until he can’t anymore, until he can’t breathe and his jaw hurts, until Dean grips his head so tight, with both hands, and just fucks into him relentlessly.  
Until Dean’s hips stutter and still and he feels bitter, thick spurts land right on his tongue.  
Dean’s voice is so hoarse as he calls out to him again that it sounds like he’s crying. Castiel’s eyes water as they look up at him, catch a glimpse of his face crumpled in something that looks like pain and pleasure together.

He caresses Dean’s navel, his thighs, skims lightly over the damp skin, leaves a kiss, soft and light, wherever he can reach. Gives him the time to come down, compose himself, find some shred of control to pull over his face.  
There’s a wet spot on his underwear and it’s starting to get crusty, and his knees ache where they touch the floor, but he ignores it, waits for Dean, needs to make sure he is okay.  
When Dean finally moves, his breaths more even, flush slowly fading from his cheeks, Castiel lets himself stand up, stretching the pins and needles out of his legs.  
He reaches out to help Dean pull his jeans up and then leaves his hands on his waist.

Tentatively, slowly, like he thinks Dean is going to snap under his fingers if he moves too fast, he pulls him into a hug.  
Pulls their chests flush with each other, the thin cotton of his t-shirt against Dean’s thick flannel, his hands folded at the small of Dean’s back, his heart drumming steady against his ribcage, the vibration reverberating through Dean.  
Dean leaves his own hands limp at his sides, doesn’t reach out, but doesn’t shy away either, lets himself be held.

It lasts long enough for the silence to become deafening in Castiel’s ears, for the absence of Dean’s touch to make him feel cold inside.  
“I should go clean up” Dean rasps out eventually, drops his eyes to the floor, detaches his body slowly.  
Castiel wonders if he has ruined everything.  
He tells himself to have faith. Dean is worth having faith in.

Twelve days pass, and they don’t talk about it. Dean slips into his room twice, in the heart of the night, soft footsteps and shaking hands, and hot, wanting mouth. He bites and trembles and moans and hides his tears into the curve of Castiel’s neck, leaves them there, hot and salty and secret, like a prayer.  
He’s always gone by the morning.

Sam comes back and notices something is different. He just looks at them, saying nothing.  
Until he does, and then Dean is a stuttering, pacing, raging mess, hurls furniture around and says “We’re not _like that_ ” and it stings in Castiel’s chest for days.

Castiel waits and prays and learns anew what having faith means.

There's a nail on the right side of Castiel's bed.  
Its head, rusty and chipped but smooth, sits neatly and safely within its borders, melting seamlessly with the wooden board beneath. He drags his thumb over it, feels the indentation of it in his skin. It looks like it has always been there, no signs of it ever been misplaced. It looks like it’s back where it always belonged.

He notices it one morning when he gets out of the shower and barely has the time to wonder about whos, and whys, when Dean walks in, two cups of coffee and a tentative, guilty tilt in his smile.  
“Oh, it was sticking out, I didn't wanna get caught in it so I fixed it.” He says, nodding towards the nail. He walks closer, handing him a mug, sitting down next to him on the bed, like it’s easy, like he has done it every day of his life.  
Castiel looks at him, looks at the mug, then back the rusty nail. He doesn’t know what to say, but lets his hands reach out for the coffee nonetheless.  
The silence that wraps around them feels warm and comfortable for once and he lets it be.

Dean reaches out to squeeze his knee, gently, briefly, then leaves his hand there, like it’s normal. Rubs circles into the fleshy curve of his thigh.  
Castiel lets him, waits him out.  
“How’s the cut doing by the way? All good?” Dean asks, clearing his voice and turning to look at him in the eyes. It almost catches Castiel by surprise, the green of them, clear and light and deep. Dean’s smile is boyish and sheepish and there’s an apology nestled into his dimples.  
Castiel loves him so much he aches with it. But he doesn’t say it.  
“All good” he rasps out instead.  
Dean nods, takes a sip “Good, Cas, that’s good.” he says “We’re good” he adds, soft and shaky and almost inaudible.  
Relief spreads through Castiel’s veins like a soothing balm, seeps into him, fills the hollow in his chest that Dean’s silence has carved there in the past two weeks.  
He almost wants to smile. He takes another sip instead.

“So there’s this vampire nest causing problems down in Texas. I was thinking we could, you know.. You could come along if you wanted? Nice drive and all” Dean says eventually, knocking their knees together and then leaving his leg where it is, flush with Castiel’s.  
“Is Sam’s shoulder good enough for that?” Castiel asks, dubious.  
“Uh, no it’s not” Dean says “He’s not coming. It would be, you know. Would be us, just us, you and me?” says in one full rush of breath, his eyes wide and vulnerable.

Castiel thinks about it for a moment, pictures the dark red bleed of Texas sunsets seeping over Dean’s cheekbones, his hands curled on the steering wheel, wind in his hair, humming a song.  
He smiles.  
“Yeah” he mutters, curling his fingers around Dean’s wrist where it rests on his knee, feeling the steady pulse of his heartbeat “Yeah, I’d like that.”  
Dean smiles back.

**Author's Note:**

> I watched SPN for years, left around season 10/11, now rewatching it all from the start. Currently at season 5 and I couldn't contain the Destiel feeling anymore so I had to write this even though I forgot 90% of canon info.  
> I feel like this is literally "the fic nobody asked for" cause there's already so much talent and content in this fandom, but I wanted to stretch my little fan-writer fingers a little, and see if I could contribute something to it too so here we are =)  
> If you enjoyed it PLEASE let me know, you will most definitely make my day! Criticism also very welcome!  
> I'm considering writing a "Texas sequel" to this, if people are into it. Lemme know!  
> And thanks for reading it all.
> 
> EDIT: Sequel is written and posted ;) Thanks everyone for your incredible support and encouragement!   
> (PS: I wrote this thinking of a Dean who has very much conflicting feelings about his sexuality, it's just a personal interpretation, mostly based on early seasons, don't be too mad at him!)


End file.
